Be Careful What You Wish For, page 17
He was a pitiful sight, she thought. It was a good job Kay couldn’t see him now. He wouldn’t stand the ghost of a chance with her. Unless she liked her men to ooze pathetic hopelessness. Few women did.
Helen still wasn’t picking up her phone calls; she must be in a meeting. Molly left another message on her voicemail and considered Barry’s situation. Fortunately, Stephen, the news editor, gave her piddling stories to chase so her brain wasn’t overly taxed with work. She was able to chip away at Barry’s difficulty while phoning and typing. A gesture was in order: something monumental but not toe-curling, sentimental but not mawkish. A public declaration perhaps, such as dedicating a novel to her – except it would take too long to have the book written and published. She twiddled her malachite beads for inspiration but they provided questionable stimulus.
Lunchtime came and went and Molly was no nearer a solution to Barry’s conundrum. The newspaper wasn’t getting its money’s worth from either of them that day. He seemed to spend most of it staring anxiously at her. She had to pull a rabbit out of the hat, if only to stop those doleful eyes haunting her. Barry was transmutating into an incubus. Think, woman. Molly longed for a cigarette but substituted a pen for the forbidden object and chewed savagely until the plastic cracked. This was driving her demented. She never had the nicotine jitters unless there was a drink in her hand but Barry was pushing her over the edge.
In desperation she scrolled through her brain for the most romantic gesture she’d ever experienced. There was the time Fionn had met her at the airport with a banner reading I Fancy Molly; there was another boyfriend, Niall, who sent her a white rose every day for a fortnight until his bank manager intervened; there was the fellow who turned up on her doorstep with a naggin of whiskey, half a dozen oranges and a packet of Lemsip – all avenues covered – when a cold forced her to cancel their date. He said he was there to pamper her and he made a reasonable fist of it. Shame she couldn’t drum up his name but she had a suspicion it began with an L. Anything else? She drew a blank. Feck it all, was that the sum total of her tender moments? Wait, that Niall lad had also taken her photograph on her thirtieth birthday, she wallowing in misery because she was an old hag on the slippery slope to forty, and stuck it in a double frame with another photograph of herself at twenty-nine. He’d written on the back: ‘No difference; as drop-dead gorgeous at 30 as at 29.’ That wasn’t half bad – why had their relationship petered out? She could’ve jumped aboard the bridal merry-go-round with him. No, wait he had Blue Shirt tendencies. She could never have brought someone so unsound on the national question home to Derry.
Helen rang, rescuing her from the need to wade back any further through discarded boyfriends in search of the ultimate sentimental gesture.
‘Quick, Helen, I need to help Barry Dalton inject some romance into his banjaxed marriage. Supply me with your knee-trembler to outstrip all knee-tremblers.’
‘Someone bought me a silver apple brooch,’ replied Helen.
‘You’ve led a sheltered life, angel face. Come on, someone must’ve launched a thousand ships to chase you or bribed the odd goddess to wheedle their way into your good books. Focus. My peace of mind and Barry’s eternal happiness are depending on you.’
‘Does holding your hand during the multiple pecking scene in The Birds count?’ (Patrick had done that in the vespertine womb of the cinema one Sunday evening in Kilkenny.)
‘It certainly doesn’t. We need to make Kay Dalton feel like Tippi Hedren before she’s attacked. The full Hitchcock treatment will leave her ravished instead of ravishing.’
‘Molly, you’ve had tonnes more relationships than me – what about some of those English lads you courted while you worked on the Evening Standard? Didn’t they know how to give a girl the wobbles?’
Molly cast her mind back. They certainly went in for filling a girl full of drink to make her wobbly but that wasn’t quite the knee-trembler she was searching for in Barry’s case.
‘I did have one who serenaded me with a song he wrote himself but it wasn’t up there with Heartbreak Hotel. He rhymed “Molly” with every “oily” sound he could find, so it had inane lines about my sweet Molly, she’s so jolly, not spiky like holly or pointed as a brolly, she’s as loyal as a collie – I’ll spare you the rest.’
‘Enthralling,’ said Helen. ‘Listen, I have work to do even if you’re a layabout. When can we meet? I need some advice. Since you’re in Wonderwoman mode you may as well cast an eye over my entanglements as well.’
‘Everything all right, Helen?’ Molly’s tone was concerned. ‘I thought you sounded a bit stressed from the messages you left on my machine.’
‘I could use some company. Can you come over tonight?’
‘I’ll arrive bearing fish and chips. You can supply the mayonnaise so we look whimsically European while we nosh up.’
As the day was ending Molly reconnoitred with Barry at the back of the news library.
‘What song did you dance to at your wedding reception, Bar?’
‘Love Is All Around.’
Surprisingly tasteful. She’d have put money on some Tammy Wynette saccharine overdose – Kay was a country fan.
‘The Troggs or the Wet Wet Wet version? Oh, fair enough, the Jerry and the Jittery JCBs interpretation – I forgot they still go in for showbands in Monaghan. Now, do you know the words? Prepare to learn them. You’re to walk through Kay’s salon singing about feeling it in your fingers and feeling it in your toes and feeling it in your kneecaps if that’s what it takes.’
Barry quaked. ‘This has to be a wind-up. I could never make such a show of myself. And even if I were able to psyche myself up it would be counterproductive. My voice croaks like a frog’s.’
Molly, leaning on the photocopier, was inexorable. ‘You have to transform yourself into a prince for Kay, even if it’s a frog prince. This is a racing certainty to be an enchanted moment, Bar. She’ll be transported back to her wedding day and she’ll see you again, aged twenty-eight and with all your own teeth and hair. It can’t fail.’
‘But what about tonight? I can’t go through another one like last night. Kay arrived back from Monaghan, liberated a bottle of vermouth from the drinks trolley and adjourned to the bedroom where she locked the door ostentatiously. I had to sleep in the spare room and it doesn’t have an electric blanket. It was freezing last night.’
Molly checked her watch: going home time had a prior claim over Barry’s domestic arrangements.
‘Not as cold as sleeping in your car. At least you’re still under one roof. Now stop moaning and start rehearsing. You’re on a day off tomorrow – that’ll give you a chance to be word-perfect by the afternoon and ready to catch Kay unawares before she embarks on the final manicure of the day. Try and manage a night’s sleep – you may be called upon to stay awake all tomorrow night surrendering yourself to an insatiable woman.’
‘I’ll have you know that’s my wife you’re talking about,’ objected Barry.
Molly rolled her eyes and flicked the photocopier light from A4 to A3 for absolutely no reason and returned to the newsroom with the air of a woman for whom splitting the atom held no challenges.
She left the building with a distinctly reluctant Barry, who showed an inclination to deviate into The Kip rather than go home. Molly steered him towards his bus stop and then made her way to Tara Street station via the Abbey Theatre (she really ought to take in a play one of these days; she was vegetating towards philistine status). Waiting for a Bray-bound train, she realised she hadn’t returned Fionn’s call from Saturday afternoon because Barry had monopolised all her attention. About to rectify this via her mobile, Molly was distracted by her promise to arrive at Helen’s bearing fish and chips, which meant staying on the line as far as Sandycove. Food made sense; woman cannot live by good works alone. Instead of Fionn she called up Helen to tell her she’d be with her in 40 minutes or so depending on the chip shop queue.
‘The day I’ve had,’ she announced, depositing a leaking bundle on Helen’s kitchen worktop.
‘Busy in the office?’
‘Not especially, just worn out rescuing Barry. Don’t even think about using plates, we’re eating these straight from the wrapper.’
Helen produced her latest gadget, a rubbery yellow sunflower that folded around the lid of the mayonnaise jar allowing her to grip and open it. Before Molly could object that she was being finicky and creating unnecessary washing up, she decanted some creamy blobs into a ramekin.
While they munched Molly updated Helen on Barry’s connubial trials – casting Barry in the role of relatively innocent casualty.
‘I have to redeem him in Kay’s eyes,’ she explained. ‘He’s my friend and he buys me coffee. Plus if women went around binning men because they made eejits of themselves under the affluence of incohol there’d be no relationships left.’
Helen shrugged. ‘Sounds as if, whatever his sins of commission or omission, he’s being punished enough with your master scheme to make a pop star out of him. Or a laughing stock. Want the rest of my chips? I can’t manage any more.’
She’d decided to wait until after they’d eaten before broaching the subject of Patrick. It was deferral, she knew, but she needed to choose her moment. Helen gathered chip wrappers and sent Molly into the living room to put her feet up on the furniture. As Helen binned the debris, congratulating herself on her foresight in buying scented liners, Molly’s voice roared at her. Helen popped her head around the living-room door to witness Molly brandishing her new goose girl figurine as though it were exhibit one in the case for the prosecution.
‘Shopping without me?’ Molly challenged.
‘Guilty as charged. I went for a walk on Killiney beach yesterday and ended up in Dalkey so I had a wander along the main street and this little knick-knack shop was open which I took as a sign.’
‘That you should spend money?’ Molly was encouraging.
‘Naturally. Anyway, I thought I could always return her if I didn’t find anywhere appropriate to display the goose girl – especially as I paid by credit card so it’s toytown money. At least until the statement arrives.’
‘You never go overdrawn,’ objected Molly. ‘It’s unnatural.’
Helen ignored her. ‘She’s porcelain, French-made, and dating from the 1850s, according to the owner. She suits my mantelpiece, I don’t believe I will return her.’ Helen turned away. ‘Anyway, she earned her keep yesterday, which was to keep the miseries at bay.’
‘Hey.’ Molly laid aside the figurine and wrapped an arm around Helen’s slight frame. She always made Molly feel like a giant although there were only a few inches’ difference in their heights. ‘I’m thinking of applying for a job as agony aunt on the evening paper; let me practise on you. What’s the matter, angel face?’
Helen’s answering sigh would have extinguished the candles on a sixtieth birthday cake.
Molly checked the mantelpiece: no Valentine’s card, no red roses about the house either. Poor Helen, she was obviously suffering the pangs of neglect.
‘It’s not the end of the world if no one sends you a Valentine,’ Molly consoled her. ‘You could be up to your oxters in them, should you choose, but if you will insist on living like a nun you can’t expect suitors. Convents have rules about that class of carry-on.’
Fury welled from Helen. ‘Molly, why do you insist on trivialising everything? You’re as shallow as a saucer of tap water and there’s no talking to you.’
Even before finishing Helen was regretting her outburst. She wanted to confide in her friend – she’d been thinking about little else all day – and yet here was Molly making cracks about convents and dragging up Valentine’s Day, as though she cared what date it was. February 14 was all about sugary love and Helen knew the version she’d blundered into was anything but sweet. It was as tart as fresh sweat, dangerous and exhilarating and ultimately terrifying, and she’d wanted to confess this to Molly but her flippancy had spoiled the moment. She’d never manage to tell her about Patrick at this rate. Already the opportunity was past.
Molly’s arm dropped from round Helen’s shoulder, and she looked uncertainly at her; Helen never showed flashes of temper. Either she was hugging her tetchy duplicate or Helen’s stress levels were out of control.
‘Tell me what’s troubling you.’
Helen shook her head. She looked weary now rather than irate. ‘I feel blurry,’ she mumbled. ‘I haven’t been sleeping too well – maybe an early night will clear my brain. We’ll talk another time. I’m sure you’d like to head home.’
Molly hovered, reluctant to leave and yet uneasy about staying when Helen made it so apparent she’d prefer to be alone.
‘Shall I fix you a hot-water bottle and lock up while you brush your teeth?’ she suggested.
Helen shook her head again. ‘Don’t fuss, Molly, I’ll be fine by tomorrow.’ A knife-edge of rancour crept back into her voice. ‘In the meantime, the last thing I need is you crowing about your Valentine conquests or condescending to me about the way I choose to live my life. I wish everyone would leave me alone.’
Molly backed off. A caustic retort was on the tip of her tongue but she clamped it – she could see Helen was at the end of her tether. Perhaps she shouldn’t have chattered about Barry but she thought it might amuse Helen. This was the closest they’d come to an argument in years and it disconcerted her. Having Helen turn on you with that scornful light in her eyes was as unlikely and unwelcome as being savaged by her teddy bear, Nelson. What would she have been like if Molly had mentioned Fionn McCullagh?
Emotions churning, Molly collected her belongings and left, and for the first time Helen didn’t stand on the step to wave her off.
Indoors, Helen hovered irresolutely. She wanted to follow Molly, who looked so concerned as she edged away, but her legs seemed averse to carrying her. She leaned against the mantelpiece for support, almost knocking over her goose girl. The diversion of the purchase had kept her sane. But what could she use for a distraction tomorrow? And the day after that and all the days whorling remorselessly ahead of her? Were they all to churn as bleakly as yesterday … Helen cringed at the prospect. Virtue was a poor substitute for a lover’s arms.
To prevent herself from phoning Patrick she’d spent most of Sunday walking – on the beach, on the winding headland stretching from Killiney to Dalkey, on the streets of the small town. She hadn’t noticed the seafront houses others paused to admire or heard the seagulls swooping overhead or smelt the salt air. Her senses had been suspended. Once, she’d continued to walk as a BMW had backed from its driveway onto the pavement, and the elderly man behind the wheel had quivered, too distressed by his near-miss to blare the horn. Her aimless perambulation had led her to a café where she’d surrounded herself with a fortress of complimentary newspapers whose pages she would never turn – but their conversation-deterring presence had comforted her. She’d lingered over a coffee that cooled, untasted, at her elbow, and immersed herself in a make-believe world in which a letter was produced by the director of an orphanage to reveal that Patrick wasn’t her brother at all but had been adopted. So their love wasn’t abnormal and she wasn’t obliged to choke it. Cue pulsating score and credits.
Compelled outside again by a restless urge, she’d mooched around the shops and bought the six-inch-high figure. The goose girl had a look of Patrick as a small boy, she’d thought, cradling the porcelain in her hand. Here lay irony: she was doing anything to avoid going home, to evade Patrick’s reach, and yet she saw him everywhere. Even in the face of a porcelain ornament. And then she’d remembered Molly, with her rational approach and her light-hearted company, and her friend had seemed to offer an antidote. But Helen’s phone calls hadn’t reached Molly so her inner wrangles had continued. She was disintegrating under the weight of arguments raging in her head. No wonder a headache had pounded, even in the fresh air. Helen had walked until her soles and calves ached but still they plodded forward because her brain told it. If only hearts were as biddable as legs.
The children are woken shortly after midnight by the electric light flashed on in their rooms. Bleary and confused, still in their pyjamas, they are shepherded downstairs by their silent mother. Their father is waiting in the kitchen. His belt is already in his hands and he fondles it almost absentmindedly. The children are immediately apprehensive at the sight of the cracked leather strap.
He smiles in a parody of an affectionate welcome. ‘Come in, don’t huddle by the door. I’m wanting a word with you fine characters. One of you might be in a position to help out with some information.’ He reaches for his whiskey glass and the smile has faded by the time he finishes swallowing. ‘Your mother’s engagement ring has gone missing. If there’s one thing I won’t tolerate in this family it’s a thief. So I’m proposing to punish all three of you, one after the other, unless the culprit confesses.’
Geraldine whimpers. ‘Not me too, Daddy. I did nothing wrong.’
‘All three of you, one after the other,’ he repeats, while his wife folds her arms and prepares to watch.
‘Now, who will I take the strap to first?’
His gaze fastens on Helen and she’s petrified. At fourteen her dread of corporal punishment has not diminished; familiarity has not accustomed her either to the pain or humiliation, although she cringes almost as much in anticipation of the blows as at the reality of belt slicing through air and exploding onto flesh.
Helen panics as he beckons to her: he’ll make her count each whack aloud and she knows she won’t be able to control her quivering voice. Automaton-like, she moves towards him, noticing his boots are unlaced, wishing he’d trip and break his neck. Wishing for any kind of intervention. Please, God, please.
‘I took it.’ Patrick halts Pat Sharkey as the man reaches for his daughter.
‘What did you say, sir?’
‘I think you heard me.’ Equal measures of bravado and trepidation permeate the boy’s voice.
